THE CHRONICLE OF CLEMENDY
the hazel-bushes, the wild raspberries, the maples, and the brambles, now ducking my head to escape a stiff bough, and now picking my way amidst the thorns, guiding my steps by the glare of the fire, and the sound of voices. At last I pushed aside two meeting bushes of may-thorn and stood within the circle. In the midst was the great beech, and its boughs stretched widely out on all sides, and rustled in the wind; below it a fire of dry sticks was piled up, crackling and blazing bravely and casting an uncertain and fantastic light on the musicians who sat around it. To whom I doffed my beaver and told them that I with some other honest gentlemen had heard their choice melodies as we passed on our way, and by their leave would gladly join their session under the beech-tree, and pay handsomely to hear them at greater length. And when I had done, a man who seemed to be the eldest of them answered me in indifferent English, bidding me and my companions welcome, very courteously and floridly, "for," said he, "all lovers of good musick are our brothers." So I called out to Nick Leonard and he and the other two came slowly up, as best they could, cursing now and then as a bough rapped in their eyes or a bramble tripped them up. And when they had found their way, we all sat down together, and the elder man began to inform us as to the condition of his band, and their manner of living. "We are," he began, "a company of musicians from Italy; this young fellow who is sitting on the root of the tree and eating sweet-cakes is called Giacomo
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